


Show Me How to Lay my Sword Down

by ace_enderchest



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Dream Smp, Gen, No Beta We Die Like Wilbur in Skyblockle, Pre-2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), References to Depression, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, Wilbur Soot is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_enderchest/pseuds/ace_enderchest
Summary: Wilbur was already having a shit day before Tommy decided to fuck it up even more.“I’m in a war, Wilbur!” Tommy shouted. Wilbur’s heart dropped and his traitorous brain immediately started firing a thousand bad memories at him. The rumbling of TNT around him, arrows raining down from above, getting impaled through the back with his chest bursting into flaming pain, Tommy shot and falling into the water and it was all his fault-He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his face in his empty hand, and took a deep breath to ground himself. You’re the President, he told himself. You have to keep it together.“What do you mean, you’re in a war?”AKA the Railway Skirmish from Wilbur's perspective.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	Show Me How to Lay my Sword Down

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the Railway War VOD and my c!Wilbur-obsessed brain connected it with Ghostbur's lines about being unbelievably depressed as President and Wilbur's motivation for declaring the election and somehow I wound up with this. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ All the dialogue in the first section is taken directly from the stream, with minimal editing for clarity.
> 
> Also, this is all /rp. Don't be weirdchamp.

Wilbur was already having a shit day before Tommy decided to fuck it up even more.

He was laying in bed, in the dark room serving as both his office and bedroom in the Camarvan, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately to avoid thinking. He knew he’d feel better if he got up, busied himself with the countless tasks on his to-do list, even just opened the curtains so the darkness of the room would stop being so oppressive, pushing down on his chest with memories of blackstone and “it was never meant to be” and a sword through his chest. But he couldn’t seem to muster the energy to do something as simple as sit up.

He felt overwhelmed, and why? He hadn’t done anything other than the countless duties that came with his job since the war. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had the time or energy to do the laundry or properly organize his room. Every non-essential belonging of his was still packed in boxes from after the war, except for a few pictures that sat on his bedside table. Him with a young Fundy beaming on his shoulders, (taken after Sally had left them, he thought with bitterness.) Him and Tommy laughing over some joke or another, leaning on the Camarvan, (Tubbo took that one, back during the early days of the drug van, before the war and responsibilities and nightmares that woke him up in the dead of night.) Him, much younger, standing next to Phil, (back before they’d parted, promises to keep in touch on their tongues. He hadn’t sent a letter in a month, hadn’t received one in even longer.)

And maybe he would have the time to clean if he could just manage to push himself out of bed. At least the day was still young, he still had time to do things. It couldn’t be any later than noon, and wasn’t that sad, that noon was early for him to get up. Just fifteen more minutes, he told himself, ignoring that it was the fifth or sixth time he’d thought it. He could always stay up late to catch up on work, as he inevitably wound up doing every time he got this bad.

He’d been fine before the war, honestly. Sure, he’d had his off-days, but who didn’t? And now, he jumped anytime someone came close to him, body and mind being sure to remind him that he couldn’t trust anyone at every chance it got.

Why was he so weak? Everybody else was getting over it. He was pretty sure he was the only one who reacted this way to the lingering memories of war. Maybe it was his responsibilities. He would be the first to admit that he wasn’t the most suited to being President. He hadn’t even seen his citizens in, what, days?

He hadn’t passed any new laws, either, not since their initial declaration of independence. He had ideas, drafts, sure, but they all sat in various levels of completion on his desk. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to sign any.

He wasn’t even able to take care of himself properly, how was he supposed to take care of an entire country? He thought, exhaling heavily through his nose and closing his eyes. His most recent letter to Phil sat half-written next to the unfinished paperwork on his desk. He tried to keep the letters upbeat, no sense in worrying his father, but it was hard to do when he got like this. So he simply didn’t write. He resolutely ignored the fact that he hadn’t done so since they won the war.

His guitar sat resting against the wall right next to his bed, untouched unless someone stopped by to ask him to play. He just didn’t have the energy to do it on his own, anymore. His hands felt like lead when he reached for it. And he knew playing would make him feel better, it always did. But he simply couldn’t.

Yes, the Presidency was sapping all his life, sucking him dry like a leech, but nobody else could take the job. Tommy was too impulsive, Tubbo was too unassertive. Fundy, his little champion, was too young. Niki, he was sure didn’t want the responsibility. Jack Manifold, he barely knew.

And besides, he didn’t want to give it away. This was his country, his L’Manberg. He’d conceived of it, he’d fought for it, he’d died for it, and he couldn’t trust anyone else with it. They would just get their grubby hands on his country, marring its ideals with their own and ruining it beyond repair. No, he had to be President. He didn’t know what he’d do without the job, anyways. At some point between the war and now, it had become his everything.

His communicator buzzed. Wilbur sighed and rolled over on his side to face the bedside table where it sat. The light was bright in the dark room, and oh, did he want to ignore the message. But he’d already gone a day without contact with the outside world and, sadly, his citizens all cared about his well-being. The last thing he wanted was Tommy to barge in and see the squalor he lived in.

So, with a heavy heart and even heavier hands, he reached over and grabbed the communicator, resting it on the bed. Before his eyes even drifted down to the message, the time caught his eye. It was 3 pm.

Wilbur squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. How? How had time passed so quickly, how was he incapable of even keeping track of one of the most basic things? The little bit of apparently-late-afternoon sunlight that slipped in through his curtains hit the ground, never touching his bed.

His communicator rang with a call, the person apparently already fed up with waiting for Wilbur to answer the text. He would hazard a guess at who it was, as only one person had such short patience, but given that apparently he couldn’t even be sure he’d kept track of time correctly, he decided it wasn’t worth it.

Opening his eyes revealed he would’ve been right - the caller was Tommy. His Vice-President, his right hand man, and one of the people who actually gave enough of a shit to come over if Wilbur didn’t respond. He rolled back onto his back, slumped against the wall, and hovered his thumb over the “answer call” button, debating whether to press it or simply wait for his demise at the hands of a too-concerned teenager barging into his living space. (Honestly, he could handle himself.) But he didn’t want the hassle, so, numbly, he let his finger drop.

Tommy spoke immediately. He sounded slightly out of breath. “Wilbur,” he said.

“Hello?” Wilbur asked, exhaustion lining his voice.

“We’ve got Dream’s stuff by accident-” Tommy jumped right into it, and Wilbur was suddenly wide awake.

“What?” His heart pounded, he couldn’t think - how did Tommy end up with Dream’s possessions - by accident?

“I ran over Dream with a train by accident and we might be able to get back the discs. I don’t know what to do,” he explained, words tumbling out of his mouth and exhilaration in his voice.

Every word he spoke only concerned Wilbur more. “What are you talking about. What are you talking-”

“I’m in a war, Wilbur!” Tommy interrupted. Wilbur’s heart dropped and his traitorous brain immediately started firing a thousand bad memories at him. The rumbling of TNT around him, arrows raining down from above, getting impaled through the back with his chest bursting into flaming pain, Tommy shot and falling into the water and it was all his fault-

He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his face in his empty hand, and took a deep breath to ground himself. You’re the President, he told himself. You have to keep it together.

“What do you mean, you’re in a war?” Only then did his brain process what Tommy had said first. “Wait, you ran him over with a train?”

“Yeah, I accidentally ran him over and got all his stuff but here’s the thing: I could get my discs back.” Oh. That explained why Tommy was so excited, rambling on like this. “He wants to give us his dead horse - which has value to him - but he won’t give us the discs and we’re not sure, Wilbur, we’re not sure what to do.” This was bad. Tommy was almost definitely in the wrong, here, but where the discs were involved, he was determined. If he had a chance to get them back, well. He’d stop at almost nothing to do so, even if the wise decision would be to let it go. Even if it could start another war.

“Ok, hold on,” Wilbur sighed, resigning himself to having to get up.

“Can you come over?” Tommy asked anxiously.

“Yeah, chill, chill. I’m on my way over.” Wilbur said, sitting up for the first time all day. “Where are you?”

“Oh - I’m at the Embassy.” Tommy’s voice sounded fainter, like he’d had to look away from the communicator. The anxiety that had wormed its way into being a constant in Wilbur’s chest ever since the war squeezed tighter.

“Okay, I’m on my way.” And with that, he clicked off the call, burying his head in his hands. He felt like he was going to be sick. He gave himself a moment to compose his racing thoughts, attempt to calm his pounding heart, before lifting his head back up and taking a deep breath. He had a war to avoid.

He got up and strode to his closet, picking up a uniform out of the pile of clothes laying in the basket, waiting to be washed. After a quick look-over, he decided it was passably clean. Ideally, there wouldn’t be enough attention on him today for anyone to notice how wrinkled it was. Besides, he didn’t have the time to do anything to clean it. So it would have to do. Slipping on his boots, he realized how much better he felt, just from a simple change of clothes. Who would’ve thought?

He immediately felt stupid, stepping out through the door. Of course, taking care of yourself made you feel better. He knew that, so why couldn’t he just do it?

He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time. He forced his thoughts away from self-deprecation and onto possible courses of action as he briskly walked down the wooden streets of his nation, ignoring the citizens who greeted their President.

Another war... No, he couldn’t. He had to avoid war at all costs. L’Manberg had only just found peace, and he couldn’t resign it to fighting yet again. Especially not for a petty personal squabble. Besides, it wasn’t even a fully-fledged country, he realized as he walked past the walls. Dream could revoke all recognition of it and they’d be back where they started. Even worse off, actually. Nearly all of them had lost a life in the war. Tommy only had one left.

Oh God, Tommy was on one life. He wouldn’t back down willingly, Wilbur knew. He was much too stubborn for that. He wasn’t one to resign unless forced to, he fought to the bitter end. He’d given up his discs for Wilbur’s country, and Wilbur would forever be grateful. Tommy wanted them back, deserved them back, and he had to go through Dream to do so. If he had an advantage over him, by all means, he should take it. But he was on _one life_. If he got himself caught up in fighting, if Wilbur didn’t help him, Dream could simply get fed up and kill him, and he’d be gone forever.

Wilbur inhaled a shaky breath and forced himself to think this through logically. No, he couldn’t let Tommy fight and die.That wasn’t an option. But he couldn’t risk bringing his country to war over this, either. It was the lives of many against his brother’s.

As President, he was in a unique position where everything he did reflected as an act by the country. If he opposed Dream, the country opposed Dream. He couldn’t stand by Tommy’s side independently from L’Manberg. Neither could Tommy separate himself, technically, but Wilbur could salvage this by denouncing his Vice-President’s actions. His own authority trumped all. That’s why it was so vital for him to get there quickly.

So he would have to defuse the situation, denounce Tommy’s actions, try and get him to give up on the discs this time. If not, he could at least make sure L’Manberg wasn’t dragged into it.

But would Tommy see this as a betrayal? Would he even listen to Wilbur after this?

He was drawing near the embassy, now. He could see Dream and Tommy in the distance - Tubbo and Skeppy were also there, as was Tommy’s horse. Skeppy and Dream were shoulder to shoulder, stances casual, yet he didn’t doubt they were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. They were facing down Tommy who had Tubbo stood by his side, their backs to Wilbur as he crested the steps. A throng of concerned-looking civilians surrounded them, at enough of a distance to not be caught in the crossfire but their desire for drama keeping them put.

Dream locked eyes with Wilbur through the mask and seemed to say something, tilting his head up to point at him with his chin. Tommy and Tubbo turned to face him, and Wilbur heard Techno’s voice in the back of his head gently chastizing him - _never turn your back on the enemy._ He forced himself to relax as he reached them, loosening his shoulders and unclenching his hands. It was no good to let the enemy onto any emotional turmoil.

“Wilbur - sorry, are you alright? Tommy’s face lightened up upon seeing his brother. “Sorry for calling you, just, you know. Me, you, and Tubbo are an unstoppable army.”

“We need a diplomat!” Tubbo interjected, a grin on his face. Wilbur regretted every thought he’d ever had about the kid being a good influence on Tommy. Clearly they only worked together to worsen each other. He ignored them in favor of addressing Dream.

“Hello. What’s the problem, why - why have I been brought here,” he asked, sticking as much poise, as much confidence, as possible into his voice. He had received a rundown of the situation from Tommy’s perspective, now he needed to hear Dream’s side of things. He stopped slightly ahead of his boys, standing up straight and clasping his hands behind his back and making eye contact. Not too threatening, but not submissive either.

Dream met his gaze steadily, arms crossed. Skeppy shifted next to him. “I have died - accidentally - and Tommy stole my stuff, and collected it, and will not give it back to me.” His voice was steel.

Wilbur sighed. That was about the rundown Tommy had given him. Speaking of, the kid - that idiot - had pushed up next to him and was staring Dream down. His aggressive stance was making Wilbur tense, he was going to escalate the situation without even realizing it.

“What do you think, Wil?” Tommy asked. Wilbur just stood there. This was it. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked Tommy, his right hand man, in the eyes.

“Tommy, you ran over Dream, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The little fucker at least looked a bit sheepish.

“And you killed him.”

“Yeah, a little bit. A little bit,” he said, looking away.

“You killed Dream with a train,” Wilbur repeated, hoping to emphasize the point.

“Yeah, and then we killed him again.” Apparently, it didn’t work.

“And then you killed him again-”

“It was cool though!” Tubbo interrupted. He was really just making the whole situation worse, wasn’t he? It wasn’t enough that Wilbur’s Vice-President was instigating conflict, his secretary of state had to be, too.

“-and you have all his stuff.” Wilbur powered through.

“...Yeah.” Tommy answered, meeting Wilbur’s eyes again.

“Tommy, I want you to give him back all his stuff.”

Tommy stood there, shocked. “But...” He looked at Tubbo, who stepped up next to him. Back to Wilbur. “Wil, we could get back the discs! We could get back the discs!” He gestured widely, emphatically, trying to reason with him. Wilbur wouldn’t give in.

“I want you to give him back his stuff.” Wilbur repeated calmly. ”You’re not gonna get back the discs. You’ve killed someone in peacetime, and then rejected all offers he’s made. All you’re gonna do is plunge us into another war that we can’t afford to fight right now.” Tommy mouthed something to Tubbo, who nodded back. Wilbur felt a burst of anger.

“Tommy you’re gonna lose your horse, we’re gonna lose our peace, we’re not-”

“It was an accident, to be fair,” Tommy interrupted. “I did shout to him to move off the tracks. It really wasn’t my fault.” As he spoke, Tubbo stepped back and leapt onto the horse’s back. Skeppy rested his hand on his bow and Wilbur felt a jolt of fear. He was going to lose all he’d worked for since he got here.

“Tubbo come back. Come back here,” he called, sternly, and Tubbo turned the horse around and walked it back to the confrontation, muttering a “sorry.” He stayed on the beast, though.

Wilbur turned back to Dream. De-escalate the situation. “Dream, I’d like to apologize on behalf of my men. They-”

“What the fuck,” Tommy muttered.

“They don’t know what they’re doing,” Wilbur finished.

“I’ve been being very reasonable!” Dream exclaimed, and Wilbur nodded. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Dream was in the right here.

“While they are passionate, their hearts are in the right place, they are unfortunately not thinking rationally.” He had to avoid war. Avoid war at all costs. “I’d like to say I’ve done my best, on the duty of L’Manberg, to get you your stuff back, and it’s now down to my men whether they agree to stand down. I assure you that if they reject they will be facing punishment.” He had to establish authority over them, confirm that he disapproved of their actions. Then, Tommy and Tubbo might not drag their fledgling nation into another war.

Dream seemed pleased with what he was saying. “Thank you. That’s been very reasonable. I have been being very reasonable.” His smug voice made Wilbur want to punch him in the expressionless mask, but he had to stay diplomatic.

Wilbur nodded again. He’d done his best to calm the situation, but it was really a lost cause. The best hope for his men would be to retreat and regroup, if they were so determined to not give in and give Dream his things back. He turned around to Tubbo on the horse and Tommy next to him and mouthed “run.” They just stared at him with wide eyes.

Wilbur turned back to Dream, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “So, yes, I’ve done my bit, I hope that helped you and I’ll leave it now.” Dream nodded at him, looking over Wilbur’s shoulder at his fellow L’Manbergians. He stepped back, off the path, leaving the two opposing parties facing each other. It was up to them now, to choose to listen to him or ignore all his warnings.

Dream’s calm demeanor quickly faded when faced with the instigator of the situation. “Tommy, give me my stuff!” he yelled, taking a threatening step forward. Skeppy drew his sword.

Tommy took a panicked step back, eyes darting. “Uh...” His gaze lingered on Wilbur for a second, before darting back to Dream. “Uh, Tubbo, let’s go!” he exclaimed, stuffing a foot into the stirrup and slinging himself onto the horse behind Tubbo in one smooth motion. Tubbo spurred the horse and they turned, galloping off down the path to L’Manberg.

Dream let out a curse, bolting after them, Skeppy at his heels. Wilbur started following at a more leisurely pace. He had no weapons, had sworn to stay out of the conflict. No use in wasting energy running after them. Also, it would do nothing but concern the gathered civilians more. He gave an acknowledging nod to the citizens of both L’Manberg and the greater SMP that had gathered around, watching the show. The only one among them he recognized was Ponk, who nodded back. None of the citizens came to talk to him, instead choosing to return to their daily business, and Wilbur heaved a small sigh of relief. He really wasn’t in the mood for small talk right now.

Reaching the edge of the hill overlooking his nation, Wilbur sped up a little. The pathway was completely empty here, probably from the news that there was a fight between two of the most powerful people on the server in the area. While it did make good entertainment, most people didn’t want to get themselves caught in the crossfire of a serious fight. Especially not the merchant types that typically used this path. They didn’t want their wares to get damaged in the fight.

Speaking of, the combatants were at the base of L’Manberg’s walls, and the situation wasn’t looking good for Wilbur’s men. They were backed up against the wall, Tubbo flung onto the ground from where he’d presumably fallen off the horse, Tommy hanging on desperately as it reared up. Dream was holding a sword, presumably Skeppy’s spare, and shouting something that Wilbur couldn’t make out. Tommy shouted back, and suddenly Dream was lunging forward. In one clean slice, he tore open the horse’s midsection and it crumpled to the ground with a terrible scream. Tommy was forced to throw himself from its back to avoid being crushed.

Tubbo and Skeppy both scrambled back as Tommy stumbled up from where he was laying, horse blood on his shirt, anger in his posture and enough rage smoldering in his eyes that Wilbur could make it out from where he was, halfway down the steps. Tubbo ran to his side, concern on his face, and said something that Tommy waved dismissively at. He instead turned back to Dream and took an aggressive step forward, jabbing his finger out accusingly.

“You killed my horse!” he yelled.

“You should’ve listened!” Dream yelled back. “You should’ve listened! You weren’t listening, you didn’t listen at all!” This was bad - it took a lot to get Dream pissed off to the point of yelling, and Tommy had certainly done it. “You took - you stole - all my stuff, Tommy! That’s not okay,” he admonished, one hand grasping the sword tightly at his side and the other waving around. Tommy drew his sword in response, and suddenly they were charging at each other.

Their swords clashed in a shower of sparks, again and again, as both fought for a leg up on the other. Tubbo stuck his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to join the fight, but Skeppy’s hand on his own sword was enough to make him take a step back, raising his hands in surrender. Good. They all knew Tubbo was good enough with a sword to hold his own in a fight, but he was trying to avoid escalating the conflict. Maybe Wilbur had gotten through to someone, here.

Dream and Tommy’s fight was still going strong, until Dream landed a blow that Tommy wasn’t quite ready for, sending him sprawling on the ground next to his dead horse yet again. He held his sword defensively from his prone position, and Dream didn’t quite lower his, but he didn’t strike Tommy from where he was standing, towering above him.

“Tommy, you should’ve known this would happen,” Dream started.

“Dream, you listen to me-” Tommy snarled, starting to get up from his place on the floor. Dream raised his sword and he slowly lowered himself back down. Tommy wasn’t really in a position to speak, here, but since when had that stopped him? Dream apparently wasn’t willing to take any of his shit, though.

“No, you listen up!” he yelled. “You should’ve listened to Wilbur!” Tommy sat back up, and this time when Dream raised his sword, Tubbo was there, standing in between them as Tommy scrambled to his feet. Skeppy darted to Dream’s side, ready to attack again, but Dream just held out an arm across his chest. Thank God, Dream didn’t want to fight. But Wilbur didn’t doubt he would resort to that if he didn’t get his stuff back soon.

Tommy had no such reservations. “You killed my horse, Dream!” he yelled, re-escalating the situation in his own unique way that had - and will continue to - cause Wilbur so much stress.

“Yeah, and I’m just gonna go get full netherite in a day,” Dream retorted. “And I’m gonna have Punz, who already has full netherite, George, who already has full netherite, Sapnap, who already has full netherite,” he listed off, and this really wasn’t good. He might not want to fight, but he sure had much better gear than Wilbur’s men. “We’re gonna raid your houses, we’re gonna steal your stuff-”

“Yeah, well I have me and Tubbo,” Tommy interjected, a scowl on his face. As if that was anything against four of the best warriors in the land.

“-and we’re gonna - guess what - we’re gonna have your stuff and our stuff, I’m gonna trade your stuff to Skeppy for both discs and then guess who loses: You.” Dream pointed his finger into Tommy’s chest, pushing him back. “You are a moron. This is your last chance,” he continued, spitting out each word. “You can take Spirit, otherwise I’m doing what I said. I’m coming back with an army, and I’ll have both discs and all your stuff. Last. Chance.” He snarled.

Tommy stood there, stunned, for a few seconds. He had his thinking face on, which never bode well, and it quickly settled into determination. He turned to mutter something to Tubbo by his side. He looked back up, caught Wilbur’s eye for a brief second, then stared at the man standing next to Dream. “Skeppy. You wanna talk for a minute?”

“Not really,” Skeppy answered nonchalantly, studying his blade in a completely unconcerned manner.

“No, no, I think you might,” Tommy encouraged, waiting until Skeppy looked up at him. “Can me, you, Tubbo, and Wilbur all just go for a quick chat? I’ll be literally less than two minutes, Dream,” he added, calling over his shoulder as he strode confidently towards Wilbur, Tubbo and Skeppy in tow.

Dream leaned back onto his sword and met Wilbur’s eyes, or so he assumed, beneath the mask. Wilbur felt a cold threat wash down his back. He forced a non-threatening smile onto his face, meeting Dream’s gaze, and focused his attention on the group gathered in front of him.

Tommy spoke first. “Skeppy, I don’t think you wanna be with these guys. You know that Dream’s a wrong’un,” he said with a gesture back at the man. Wilbur could tell Tommy was using every ounce of diplomacy training he’d attempted to ingrain into his Vice-President. Skeppy wasn’t impressed.

“You ignored me earlier today,” he said, deadpan at first but voice increasing in emotion. “You didn’t let me be a part of your business. You’ve attacked me multiple times today. Fuck you,” he spat out the last two words, and whirled around, stalking off back to Dream.

Well, shit, that added a whole other dimension to the situation that nobody had briefed Wilbur on.

“Well, that did not go as planned,” Tommy said, gaze lingering on Skeppy, who was now consulting with Dream. Wilbur didn’t even know where to start.

“Tommy, you’ve been an idiot. I don’t know why you’ve done this.”

“You told me to run!” Tommy accused, turning to him.

“I told you to run because that’s the best course of action in what you’ve set yourself up in!” Wilbur exclaimed, and it was true. If they weren’t going to give in, they had to run, fighting would be terrible for everyone involved. “Everything you’ve done has been a bad idea. Running was your best bet - and you fucked that up - so now, you’re left with only my suggestion,” he continued, glaring at his right hand man. Tubbo shifted awkwardly next to him. But Tommy was nothing if not persistent.

“Wilbur, I think Skeppy might be a weak link-” he tried starting.

“That’s my first time ever hearing Skeppy’s voice, I don’t care if he’s a weak link!” Wilbur exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation. His men took a step back at the outburst, and Wilbur felt a wave of shame. He needed to stay calm, that was his job. He took a second to compose himself.

“Look, what I’m saying is you need to sort out your issue with Dream quickly, before it damages L’Manberg. Before it damages our nation,” he continued. “I wasn’t just put as President to deal with the issue that was put straight forward at the time, I want to make sure that our future is peaceful and that we’re able to grow and succeed as a nation after the fact. Do you understand, Tommy?” Tommy was silent, not meeting his eyes, and Wilbur was done with this. The curling anxiety in the pit of his stomach was getting the better of him, he couldn’t stay calm, couldn’t control it much longer without snapping. He never was any good under pressure. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, collecting himself.

“What you’re doing here is jeopardizing the lives of everyone who lives here.” He spoke in clipped sentences. “Just for your petty squabbles. And I want to see it amended. Do you understand me, Tommy.” Tommy looked away, to Tubbo.

“I think he’s right,” Tubbo said quietly, eyes downcast.

“Yeah...” Tommy finally sighed out, still not meeting Wilbur’s gaze.

“Yes who?” he said sternly. If Tommy wouldn’t recognize Wilbur knew what was best on his own, well, he would have to make him.

“Yes Mr. President,” Tommy said sullenly, looking at the ground.

Good. Wilbur nodded, then stepped back, off to L’Manberg. He didn’t even glance at Tubbo, he didn’t look at Dream or Skeppy. He couldn’t do anything more for the situation. He’d defused it as best as he could. Dream had all but promised L’Manberg wouldn’t get involved, and that would have to be good enough for him if Tommy refused to listen. He tried to ignore the anxiety pooling in his gut and his heart in his throat as he thought about Tommy, fighting with only one life left. He couldn’t do anything else, he reminded himself.

Another problem: nobody had listened to him. He was President, the ultimate authority, and they didn’t seem to care. His men hadn’t listened when he told them to surrender, and only worsened the situation when they did listen to him. It was clear they didn’t respect his power.

Tommy’s acknowledgment of his title didn’t really mean anything either, not prompted like that after he’d so thoroughly disregarded everything Wilbur had said earlier. He’d have to think about what that meant.

For now, Wilbur stuck his hands in his pockets, kept his gaze to the ground, and walked briskly, hoping his unfriendly demeanor would discourage any conversation. He didn’t really care about upholding the “friendly President” image at the moment. He just wanted to get back home.

.

Later that night, Wilbur sat at his desk in the room illuminated by a single candle, still in the same uniform, mind wandering. He’d attempted to complete some of the multitudes of paperwork sitting there, trying to get his mind off the day’s events because he thought he might go insane if he laid in bed with only his thoughts for any longer. But it hadn’t been very productive - his brain simply wouldn’t shut off. Tommy could be injured, could be homeless and possession-less, could be dead, and he wouldn’t know. But he wouldn’t be able to help anyways, so he kept himself glued to the seat of his chair.

He heard a knock on the door and ignored it. Normally he would go answer it, but today he simply couldn’t be bothered. He ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead, he began his seventh attempt to read a proposal without getting lost in his thoughts.

Apparently, his guest didn’t have any care for personal space, as he heard the front slam open. Wilbur felt a jolt of panic - why hadn’t he locked it? Anybody could get in and kill him-

Tommy barged into his room, filling up the space around him as he always did, and Wilbur forced himself to calm down. He had a bandage wrapped around his left arm and a bruise blooming around his eye, but was otherwise fine, beaming with a wide grin. The sight of him, happy and alive and relatively uninjured undid a knot in Wilbur’s stomach he hadn’t even known was there.

“Wilbur! Guess what!” he exclaimed as he skidded into Wilbur’s hybrid office-bedroom, quickly sobering up as he took in the state of his living space. The unwashed bedsheets, the stacked up yet-to-be-unpacked boxes, the dirty uniforms piled in a basket. Wilbur internally cringed. This was exactly why he always met people outside or at their places. He didn’t want to explain why it looked like he couldn’t take care of himself.

“Wil? Everything good, big man?” Tommy asked, much softer, when Wilbur didn’t speak and why was Tommy looking at him with pity? He was fine, sure he’d cried a little earlier when the stress caught up to him, but he was over it now. His emotional turmoil shouldn’t be visible anymore. He sighed, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He was so tired. Eventually, he spoke.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?” The kid looked concerned, for some reason. Did he really look that bad?

“Why do you not respect me as President?” Wilbur asked, avoiding Tommy’s gaze just as he was avoiding the topic Tommy surely wanted to discuss. That question had been bothering him ever since that afternoon, and now, it was out. One of his greatest insecurities, spoken for the world to hear. It was nerve-wracking, but he had to know. Had he not done enough, sacrificed enough, for this country? Had he not proved his worth ten times over?

(Of course, the answer was no, his traitorous brain whispered. He’d barely done anything as President, his people had, frankly, seemed shocked to see him out and about earlier. Tommy had sacrificed ten times as much as him for L’Manberg, he deserved the country much more than Wilbur.)

“What?” Tommy sounded shocked, as if it hadn’t occurred to him, which was such an absurd concept that Wilbur wanted to laugh.

“Why do you not respect me as President?” he asked again, meeting his right hand man’s eyes, this time. Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinized his brother’s gaze, and he must not have been satisfied with what he found there because his next words were rife with uncertainty.

“I - I don’t know what you mean, Wil,” he said awkwardly with a laugh in his voice, running a hand through his hair. He opened his mouth to continue, but Wilbur interjected.

“But you clearly don’t, you clearly don’t. Whatever I told you today, you didn’t listen. You could’ve started another war, Tommy! You could’ve died, or lost everything, or dragged the whole country into this, or, or, I don’t know. I don’t know,” he trailed off into a mumble, burying his face in his hands. He felt like he was going to cry, for some stupid reason. Tommy was quiet.

His hand on Wilbur’s shoulder made him flinch. He was much too tense, but he couldn’t force himself to relax. Deep breaths, he reminded himself, and when he was no longer on the verge of tears he looked back up at his brother, who was looking at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. Wilbur’s stomach curled in contempt. He didn’t need to be pitied, he was fine.

“I do respect you,” Tommy started, almost solemnly. “But look, everything worked out today! I got Dream’s dead horse-” Wilbur snorted, and Tommy smiled, “-and we didn’t start a war or anything! And now Dream owes me, we have a leg up on him!” Wilbur looked away.

“It doesn’t matter, not really,” he said after a few seconds. Tommy made a questioning sound, and he looked back over. “Dream owes you, you owe him, it cancels out.”

“Yeah, but it’s something!" Tommy was so optimistic, all the time. Nothing ever got him down. What Wilbur wouldn’t give to have that enthusiasm, that zest for life, again.

”You deserve L’Manberg more than me, you know that, right?” Wilbur said suddenly. Tommy looked at him with shock, took a step back, and Wilbur felt he needed to elaborate. “You’ve given so much for it. What have I done, sit in this office? The people love you. They barely know me.”

“You deserve this as much as me,” Tommy tried to convince him. “You gave up a life for L’Manberg!”

“And you gave up two, plus your discs,” Wilbur pointed out. Tommy just scowled, continuing.

“You spend all your days in here, doing paperwork, so that they can live out there. You’ve dedicated yourself to it, we can all see that. Everybody thinks you deserve the Presidency,” he said, and he seemed genuinely convinced of it. But Wilbur knew better. They would listen to him if they thought he was worthy.

“Mm hm, sure,” Wilbur agreed, just to placate him. He was done with this conversation, he wasn’t sure why he’d even started it in the first place. Obviously nobody was going to tell him the truth about what they thought of him. Tommy hovered anxiously at his side, mouth opening and closing like he was about to speak but didn’t know where to start, before he finally changed the subject abruptly.

“You know, I was just gonna go say hi to Jack Manifold. Wanna come with? He’s a lot of fun,” he said, turning towards the door. Wilbur didn’t really blame him for wanting to leave. It wasn’t fair to dump all his problems on his brother.

“You go ahead, go have your fun,” he said, putting his glasses back on and waving him away. When Tommy hesitated at the door to his room, he raised an eyebrow at him, prompting him on.

“You sure?” Tommy asked, hand on the doorway. He thought for a second, then added, “he’s a new citizen, you should probably come greet him, since you’re so worried about public relations. Good impressions as President, and all that.”

Wilbur looked down at the barely-touched work on his desk, expression souring. He really didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, especially as President. It was different just chatting with his brother, much more casual, but even that was exhausting right now.

“I have a lot of work to do,” he settled on saying. He looked back up at Tommy, who was still staring at him, brows furrowed. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured, putting on a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He would be, he really would. He just needed time to think on his own. And to catch up on the paperwork before he inevitably had another episode that left him unwilling and unable to leave his bed for a week.

“Okay, if you say so,” Tommy said uncertainly after a few moments of silence. He seemed so concerned over what was really nothing. Wilbur would be back to normal in a few days, he always was. “See you tomorrow, Wil,” he added, a promise, before leaving Wilbur alone in his room.

Wilbur muttered something indistinct in response as he heard the door shut and footsteps fade into the distance.

He stretched back in his chair and sighed, before burying his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the desk. Though everybody insisted otherwise, it was clear that nobody respected his leadership. He couldn’t afford to lose the Presidency, it was all he had left. He didn’t know what he’d do without the job. But he had to consolidate power.

He’d declared himself President after winning the war, but nobody saw him as such - not even himself. He had to make them recognize this power, ideally without imposing it on them. He didn’t want to be an authoritarian government - that was exactly what they had made L’Manberg to escape.

An idea suddenly struck him, sending him wildly scrambling for an empty paper and a pen. He couldn’t impose his rule on them, but if he made it seem like they chose him themselves, well, then everybody would be happy, right? He dug frantically through the piles of paper for one he could write on. They didn’t actually need to have that freedom of choice, as long as nobody noticed. He ended up grabbing a paper with the rough draft of the lyrics for the anthem scrawled upon it, scratched out and edited, and jotted down one single word at the bottom of the page, circled and underlined.

Election.

He had to declare an election.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I feel like I kinda toned down the angst potential lmao.
> 
> mineblr/mcytblr: ace-enderchest
> 
> Please leave a comment and/or kudos! Constructive criticism is appreciated & I try to reply to all comments :^)


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